


zoya no (zoya yes)

by kimaracretak



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Gen, Humour, i gave up on giving this a proper title, mal is a Problem and zoya is Irritated, this is almost too short to post ah well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 10:14:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5452979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/pseuds/kimaracretak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it's not so much that zoya got herself into a fistfight, it's that she got roped into finishing off <em>mal's</em> fistfight</p>
            </blockquote>





	zoya no (zoya yes)

Zoya Nazyalensky prides herself on many things, and she would be more than happy to tell you about all of them. Her Grisha powers, for one, closely followed by – or, on _really_ special occasions, preceded by – her hair. Her ability to maintain a certain amount of decorum in trying situations also ranks fairly high on the list.

Unfortunately for her, she seems to have a talent for attracting people who care about none of those things.

Even more unfortunately, she seems to have an unbearable tendency to get _attached_ to those people.

Which means she’s stuck with them for … well, _forever_ is a bit optimistic considering the current state of the country. Which also means that she is, for the second time in three days, standing very still in the middle of a small-town market, examining some exquisite leather pouches that she once would have been able to buy without a second thought, hoping very hard that Alina’s stupid puppy dog of a bodyguard isn’t going to start another street brawl.

It’s a lovely hope, and she sighs to herself as it vanishes in a shout of “The Summoner _is_ dead, and I _will_ say it to your face!” from one of the boys Mal’s been talking to.

Zoya ducks the first thrown object, brushes the second one away on a conveniently-stolen twist of breeze, and debates the merits of waiting out this particular round of masculine bad decisions under a table. This particular pair of breeches has been past salvaging for a while, anyway.

Hardly has she settled herself in the perfect spot – close enough to the action to make sure she’ll see anything she can use to mock Mal with later, but far enough away that she can project an air of careless uninvolvement – than a man with an unpleasantly crooked smile approaches. “Room for one more down there?” he asks.

Zoya rolls her eyes as she stands up, tilts her head and considers his resemblance to the boy who currently has Mal in a headlock. “No,” she decides, and allows the smug grin that creeps across her lips when it only takes one punch to knock him flat to stay for far longer than decorum would usually allow.

She sits down again, props her chin in her left hand and examines the rings on her right with a critical eye. Mal _so_ owes her if she chipped a stone on that man’s filthy cheekbone.

Come to think of it, he owes her for ruining a perfectly fine shopping break anyway.


End file.
